


no time for contemplation now

by crookedspoon



Series: Exchange Fics [30]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson is Robbie Malone, Identity Porn, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, POV Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: In order to make a crime boss trust him, Dick (disguised as Robbie Malone) has to fuck Bruce Wayne in front of a crowd of associates.





	no time for contemplation now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kmfillz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmfillz/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [no time for contemplation now 无暇深思](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24521692) by [c4rdinal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/c4rdinal/pseuds/c4rdinal)



> Many thanks to Lu for the awesome beta!

If Dick has learned anything during his many years as a crimefighter, it's that shady deals aren't always cut in dark alleyways or the back rooms of casinos. Quite often, they take place in private villas - such as this one, where you're invited in through the front door.

Sitting on a well-trimmed lot somewhere in the Heights, this sprawling Neocolonial structure marries the lavish splendor of old money with the sleek minimalism of the corporate elite. The sitting room that Dick and his contact are first led into features a wide array of period pieces—a Chippendale chest here, Queen Anne chairs there—that are no doubt supposed to convey a sense of connection to the past, of having a rich family history - and the heirlooms to prove it.

Over the rim of his sunglasses, Dick studies a print glorifying the Confederate cavalry around Jeb Stuart, keeping his expression mildly bored, as his contact paces in the hallway outside, talking on the phone in hushed Ukrainian and wringing his hands. Dick pops the lollipop he keeps in his hand when he's not engaging with anyone back into his mouth. The sounds he produces are deliberately obnoxious and solely for the benefit of his present company: a stone-faced guard stationed like an unobtrusive statue in a corner of the room, only there to keep watch and make sure that Dick doesn't wander off too far.

The host is taking chances by welcoming Dick into his home, although he comes recommended by quite a number of his underground contacts, including Andrei here, whom Dick met in the aftermath of a bar fight and who employed Dick's services several times since then, to gauge his level of trustworthiness. If not for all that, the doors would have remained closed to them, and Dick would have had to search for a new lead. 

"Mr. Loboda," the host greets Andrei in the hallway. They clasp hands, and Andrei waves at Dick to join them. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. We were just finishing up. It's been quite the show so far."

Thomas Colter is a reedy man in his late sixties with hair as white as his suit and his solarium-tanned skin a near match for his oxblood tie. It's not difficult to imagine him earning his money by doing nothing more than facilitating deals between parties who do not want to be seen by the outside world. 

"Sorry to keep you from your engagements," Andrei says by way of greeting. "I'm sure I'll hear all about it tomorrow. Your demonstrations always generate quite the buzz. Boss sends his regards, by the way. Would have loved to come, but you know... scheduling conflicts."

"Say no more. Tell him he's always welcome here. Who's your friend?"

"Robbie Malone," Dick introduces himself, palm outstretched. He knows the lollipop is creating an obscene bulge in his cheek and going by Colter's appraising look, he notices it, too.

"So you're the kid that Matches took under his wing. I've heard a lot about you. Mostly from the man himself."

Dick suppresses a frown. That sounds bogus. Bruce only talks about him when giving stern moral lessons and Colter doesn't seem the type to receive _those_ well. "Only good things I hope."

"Why, of course. He's very proud of you, you know." It's a lie, Dick knows, and yet his chest twinges to hear it. "Follow me."

As they make their way deeper into the mansion, Dick's skin is pulling tighter. Colter falls into the polite small talk expected of a host and Dick responds in kind, somewhat distracted by wondering which of the paintings lining the walls are real and how many are stolen. He can't imagine a careful man like Colter being bold enough to flaunt his collection of stolen art where anyone who wanders in can see, but the police rarely come this far out to make house calls. And those that do likely don't have a background in recovering lost masterworks.

Colter leads them through an arch into a high-ceilinged room with Greek columns supporting the beams overhead. The interior is sparse, mostly made of marble and gold, with a scattering of chairs in front of a dais and white tables decked out with refreshments. In the far corner, a group of men in dark suits have gathered in front of the fireplace, their conversation broken by the occasional mean laughter.

Dick's nerves are making themselves known. His hands are clammy, his stomach ready to do a backflip. It's like every echoing step he takes toward these men is chipping something off of his soul, and leaving him hollower for it. As if he already knows what he's going to see.

"Gentlemen," Colter says and the wall of backs parts to allow them through. He does the necessary introductions but Dick can't focus on the words. He is transfixed by the scene in front of him.

The rustle of fabric, the soft squelching, the sharp puffs of breath... Dick has taken them in subliminally, but only now he realizes what they are.

On a low glass table on the center of the crowd, two men in well-tailored suits are spitroasting a naked man between them. His wrists are tied with thick rope, his buttocks and thighs are red from spanking, his broad back is shiny with sweat and semen and criss-crossed with scars the shape of which tugs uncomfortably at Dick's brain.

Some of the surrounding men egg the performance on with encouraging comments for one party and degrading slurs for the other. Others don't even pay attention anymore and are talking amongst themselves while sipping on their glasses of Scotch. Cheers erupt when the men orgasm and pull out. Come leaks out of a gaping, dark pink hole, sliding down to the balls and dripping off. Dick looks away. 

Filled-out checks are littering the floor around the table, some of them come-stained as well.

Absurdly, Dick wonders who is going to clean all of this up.

"How do you like our entertainment for the evening?" a bespectacled man in a navy suit asks. Despite his slight build, he exudes an air of importance that is reinforced by the men crowding around him like sycophants.

"Is that—?"

"Bruce Wayne? The very same." A small smile peeks out from behind his goatee, as if he were enjoying a private joke.

Dick grits his teeth around the stem of his lollipop.

So his apprehension was justified. This is Bruce after all. Dick watches him laboriously lie down on his side, then roll onto his back. He looks absolutely wrecked. Bite marks pepper his skin, concentrating around the neck, nipples, and the inside of his thighs. Ejaculate is drying on his flushed face, his lips are rubbed raw, and his sweat-soaked hair is clinging to his temple. His chest is heaving like it only does after he's taken on a warehouse full of trained militia. And even then it doesn't come close. 

"Ah, I see you already met Monsieur Marquette," Andrei says, slipping his cellphone back into his pocket. "This is Mr. Malone, as you may have guessed."

Dick surreptitiously eyes Bruce, wondering what the fuck he's gotten himself into this time. If Bruce got himself in hot water— _great, let's get out of here and deal with the consequences of blowing your cover later._ But if Bruce seized an opportunity that landed him in this position, he must have weighed his options beforehand and settled for playing along. Because unless half of the men gathered are metahumans, Bruce could take them without breaking a sweat before the guards could even step in.

Conclusion: Bruce is exactly where he wants to be and wouldn't thank Dick for "helping".

"So you're Marquette. A pleasure. And please call me Robbie. Mr. Malone is my mentor." Dick can almost feel Bruce's eyes flick up at him, recognizing the cadence of his voice, if nothing else.

"The pleasure is all mine," Marquette says, eyes intent on Dick's mouth. Dick is somehow glad for the company, even if he can't trust any of these men not to throw him down next to Bruce and give him the same treatment.

The only reason he's not worried about is the reputation he's built up as Robbie. Marquette has a job for him that his own men can't do, and it wouldn't do to antagonize Robbie before its completion. Which doesn't mean he can't plan for after...

"So," Dick begins, too nervous for small-talk. "Where do you wanna talk shop?"

"You young ones. Always so impatient. Here pleases me quite nicely." There goes his ticket to a more private location where he wouldn't have to be around a very naked Bruce.

"Time waits for no man, Mr. Marquette." Several of the men around them shoot him dirty looks, as if he were violating some sacred code of conduct. Well, he probably comes off as a little brusque. _Chill out, folks. You've done worse in your life._

"Why don't we talk and get to know each other first, _hein?_ Let me get you a glass. In the meantime, feel free to help yourself to some, ah, entertainment. You seem interested."

The chatter around him intensifies, pressing in on his eardrums. He's sweating, and his glued-on moustache itches, but he doesn't dare scratch it, worrying it might come off. "Thank you, but I prefer my partners less used up. Besides, he looks like he needs a break."

"Nonsense. If he needed a break, he'd have begged us to stop already."

_What the fuck are you playing at, Bruce?_

"Go on, get it out of your system and then we can talk without distraction. If you're worried he's going to wake up tomorrow and press charges, rest assured. If he remembers anything of tonight, it won't be your face."

"That's good to know." 

If they think Bruce is not conscious anymore, these guys don't know him at all. It takes more than the standard dose of rohypnol to knock Bruce out. He has been systematically building up his tolerance for any number of drugs and poisons over the years. Unless they made it strong enough to kill an elephant, Bruce is going to remember.

"What are you doing, man?" Andrei hisses at him from the side. "I got you in here because I owed you. Don't jinx it."

Dick shrugs away his discomfort. "I don't see you whipping out your dick in front of these guys and sticking it in the richest man in Gotham. Maybe I'm shy. Maybe I wanna wine and dine him first before dipping my cock in that. Some of us are like that."

"This isn't the time for your jokes. Listen, I didn't know it was gonna be like this, but if this deal goes south because Marquette doesn't like you, I'm toast. I vouched for you and it's gonna reflect badly on my boss. Who, as you know, is deep in business with Marquette."

"Relax. No one's gonna be mad if I don't flaunt my junk."

Andrei shoots him a look that says 'you gotta be kidding me.' Then again, since one of his eyes is smaller than the other he always gives off the impression of doing that. "He wants to see if you can follow orders without balking. If you do this, he has dirt on you, which guarantees you won't betray him once the job is finished." He pauses. "You're lucky this guy here is so out of it. I've seen others fight tooth and nail to get away. Just try to enjoy it, man."

"Seriously?" Dick sucks hard on his lollipop. "The pay better be spectacular."

He has the dim feeling that if he doesn't do this, his fate will be similar to Andrei's. He hopes Bruce can forgive him for what he is about to do.

"Here's your drink, handsome." Marquette offers him a glass with two fingers of Scotch.

Dick snatches it gratefully and knocks it back, not even caring anymore if it's roofied or not. Robbie is of no use to Marquette passed out on the floor. The drink burns like a root system growing through his chest, and although it does little to steady his nerves, it dulls them a little. He feels less on edge.

As he walks up to Bruce and undoes his belt, the men around him applaud him and whistle; he's sickened by them, doing this kind of thing for sport. And sickened by himself for participating.

"I bet he was getting bored without a cock filling him," one of them supplies.

"Give it to him good, Robbie," another joins in.

Bruce's breath has evened out but he's still slumped on the table like has no energy left in him to fight. His legs lie splayed and dangling off the edge, soft cock nestled against his thigh, bound wrists hanging off the table. Dick traces his fingers over his skin as he steps around Bruce to position himself between his knees. Bruce's glassy eyes seem to follow him and his hips twitch. Dick doesn't know if it is an involuntary gesture or if Bruce is trying to get away.

"Here," Dick says, transferring his lollipop from his mouth to Bruce's, which earns him a round of approving laughter. "Keep this warm for me."

If Bruce really is out of it, Dick can't have him suddenly spouting out his real name. Or even his vigilante name. Bruce may have trained himself to withstand any kind of torture and altered mental state so he would never reveal the identities of any of his allies, but even the right name could prove fatal if he identifies Dick's disguise correctly. Bruce Wayne doesn't know Robbie Malone.

Well. He's going to have to get to know him now. For better or for worse.

Dick angles up Bruce's legs to give himself at least some cover from the hungry gazes of these men. He grimaces when he takes his cock out—already hard and ready for action. Dick doesn't want to examine why; he should be turned off by this—and wonders if he should risk getting out a condom. Looks like these guys enjoy making messes and Robbie will look like a prude if he doesn’t go for the chance to bareback Bruce Wayne. Dick guesses he'll just have to get tested afterwards, as soon as possible, and urge Bruce to do the same.

Dick sends out a silent prayer to his parents, if they are watching, to look away from this shameful act he is about to commit. 

Bruce. This is Bruce he's doing this to. The man who gave him a home after his parents died and who showed so much kindness to a kid that wasn't his own. And Dick is—How can he—

Bruce grunts as Dick penetrates him, sliding inside like it's nothing. Bruce is wet and loose and so hot Dick breaks out in sweat. He tells himself now is not the time to worry about staining his expensive dress shirt, but his mind is searching for any excuse not to be in the moment with him.

It's not easy. Bruce feels insanely good, especially when he starts warming up to the treatment. His breathing deepens and he moans, canting his hips to better meet Dick's thrusts.

Dick feels like a criminal for doing this. Like the worst kind of scum.

"Look at Brucie enjoy this," someone points out. "He's even getting hard again."

"He hasn't responded this much since we got started."

"Yeah, just took it like a bitch with his limp dick swinging between his thighs for the past hour."

"Little Robbie here seems to be his type."

"Guess he likes them young," another laughs.

"Think he learned to take it like that from his son?"

The crowd erupts in laughter, just in time so they wouldn't hear Dick's embarrassingly loud moan. That last comment caught him off guard in the worst possible way. He thinks he might be sick. A pulse of heat flashed from his balls across his body at imagining himself having done this to Bruce sooner, when it was just the two of them, no spectators, no disguises, and no second-guessing of each other's intent.

He shudders, and even that makes new pleasure roll through him. Dick is never going to be able to make it up to Bruce. The guilt over getting off on this is sitting heavy in his stomach.

He licks his palm with his sticky tongue and wraps it around Bruce's growing erection. He hopes that by pleasuring him, he might make this easier on Bruce. It's a stupid thing to think; it's bad either way, perhaps even worse if he makes Bruce enjoy it. But the thought has burrowed itself into his consciousness like an order. Dick is a pleaser. He likes his partners to enjoy themselves. Why would he treat this any differently just because they're both forced into this situation? Here, he feels even more compelled to do it.

Dick leans over to suck one of Bruce's peaked nipples into his mouth, beginning to slowly stroke him. Bruce moans loudly around the lollipop in his mouth.

The wet slap of skin against skin is obscene in the sudden hushed silence of the room. Everyone is watching them intently. Dick tries to hold on to Bruce, but his shoulders are slippery, and Dick can't find any purchase. 

"Bruce," he breathes, breaking character. His skin is tingling and he's desperate for... something, some kind of response perhaps, but if Bruce hears, he doesn't let on.

Dick straightens again, Bruce's heavy legs hooked over his arms, and fucks into him faster, meeting no resistance at all. Bruce seems out of it, but his fevered eyes are fixated on Dick. Dick wonders how much he sees. How much of Dick's disguise he recognizes.

The thought of Bruce reacting to _him_ this strongly, even though he's spent and ruined, is what gets to him. His orgasm creeps up to him faster and faster, and he pumps Bruce's length frantically to keep up with it. Dick feels Bruce's cock twitching in his hand before a pitiful amount of come spurts out of it and over Dick's knuckles. He contracts around Dick as he comes, and that does it. Dick throws his head back and groans, hips stuttering and balls spasming as they empty themselves inside Bruce.

Dick keeps sliding into Bruce's welcoming hole to ride it out, sinking into that feeling of contentment that settles over him. It feels wrong, but it's done now. He’s passed the test or whatever, and he can get on with the job. He can't waste it all now and give in to the guilt. Bruce taught him better.

He slaps Bruce's thigh as he pulls out just to get his attention.

"I hope it was as good for your as it was for me," he says, stepping around Bruce and zipping up. "But I'm gonna want that back."

He reaches out to pluck his lollipop out of Bruce's mouth and pops it back into his own. Belatedly, he realizes what a stupid idea that is. He doesn't know where Bruce has been with that mouth or what has been done to it. Well. Too late to worry about that now. He just has to roll with it.

"Now wasn't that relaxing?" Marquette asks, clapping him on the back and Dick remembers where he is.

"Phew, yeah," he says and stretches. "Hell of a lot actually. Can I keep him?"

He's glad that Robbie is considered somewhat of a loose cannon, so he can get away with a few shifts in attitude throughout the course of an evening. Dick just has to focus on the high and play his part right.

Marquette chuckles politely. "I thought you liked your partners less used?"

Dick swirls his lollipop around in his mouth before answering with a grin. "He wouldn't be much of a partner. More of a stress relief tool, you know what I mean?"

"Of course." He gestures to the table with the refreshments. "A toast to our new friendship? Then we can 'talk business' as you said."

Finally. Dick sincerely hopes the whole ordeal is worth it in the end. Otherwise, he won't be able to speak with Bruce again, much less look him in the eyes.

"Lead the way."

* * *

Dick is avoiding Bruce. He wouldn't acknowledge as much to anyone who might ask, but it's exactly what he's doing.

He knows they should probably talk. Except that Dick doesn't really know what to say. Communication has always been notoriously difficult between him and Bruce. He doesn't want to excuse or justify himself, nor does he want to diminish the anguish he may have caused Bruce.

They should just talk. The longer this festers between them, the worse it'll get. They've been here before.

Thing is, Dick has been keeping himself busy trying not to think about it. He got Marquette's job, which turns out to be investigating the hit on an associate's younger son. He had been ostracized from the family, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be a revenge plot under way. Turning up leads for that case while simultaneously digging up some official dirt on Colter and Marquette has Dick running overdrive with barely a minute to eat or sleep or catch a shower.

When he does sleep, he just winks out like a light. And if he has nightmares, he doesn’t remember them when he wakes. But if a day is slow and he’s got too much time to think, his stomach starts eating itself with the gnawing shame he feels.

It's not a state that's infinitely sustainable. One day the guilt will get to be too much and he'll make a mistake at a crucial time when he can't afford it. He should know. He's been there before, too.

So when he finds Batman in his living room one night, he should be grateful that he doesn't have to be the one to reach out. He should be, but it's not what he feels. He can't exactly put a finger on what it is he feels.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, more out of habit than anything else. If Batman pays you a surprise visit, it's usually because he wants you to do something for him. And most of the time you won't like what that something is.

Batman—Bruce, since his cowl is off—is standing in front of Dick's couch, staring down at the case files Dick was sure he'd put away before leaving. Even more strangely, he's placing his coffee cup on a matching saucer. Dick didn't even know he _owned_ saucers. Or coffee for that matter. 

"We need to talk," Bruce says with that Batman undercurrent of _now._

"Yes," Dick replies, tamping down his instinct to flee under the shower and instead throwing his gloves over the nearest chair. Next, he peels off his mask. Having something to do helps when facing Bruce. "I take it you remember."

"I never forgot."

Dick nods while toeing off his boots. It's as he expected. He takes a deep breath. "Listen, Bruce, I don't know what to say. I—"

"I'm proud of you."

"—can't begin to—I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm proud of you," Bruce repeats, and this time it's unmistakable.

"Bruce," Dick starts, incredulous, "I raped you in front of a roomful of criminals and you're proud of me?! Do you even hear what you're saying?"

"You did what you had to do in the moment, and you chose to keep your cover. In doing that, you may have saved both our lives."

"You don't know that!"

Bruce gives him a 'you know I'm right' look.

Dick throws up his hands and stalks into the kitchen, hoping to find some more coffee. Bruce follows him like a shadow.

"You know what's been bugging me? Why didn't you break out yourself before I entered the scene? You could have knocked them all out before they even knew what hit them."

"No one was in danger."

" _You_ were in danger."

"You just said yourself I could have handled myself if it came to it."

As Dick is pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot that Bruce had apparently made, a sudden thought clicks in his head and Dick jerks upright. "Oh my God, you _wanted_ this. Now it all makes sense. Why you didn't fight the guys off, why you didn't fight _me_ off, your body language when I... when I..."

Bruce has not moved a muscle since Dick started speaking and is still giving him no outward reaction. That usually means he is not denying anything.

Dick runs his fingers through his hair and leans against the kitchen counter, not knowing what to do with this revelation.

"Being Batman has made me realize many things about myself." Bruce closes his eyes as if to swallow his feelings. He exhales slowly. "Marquette is a metahuman. He seems to have the ability to read a person's most shameful desires. He was able to keep me in the position you saw me in because he knew that deep down I've always wanted to be treated that way.

"I don't want you to blame yourself for what happened. None of it was your fault. I wanted it."

"How can you—?" Dick stops himself from erupting and saying the wrong thing. Bruce is not the kind of person to talk about desires lightly. In fact, Dick didn't even know Bruce _had_ any, given how close-mouthed he is. And if it was a desire long held secret, for Bruce to open up about it is a big deal. Dick shouldn't judge him. "How can you say that?" he adds more softly.

The bad feelings inside Dick don't just magically disappear because Bruce tells him it's all right. It only adds to the complication.

They are silent for a few moments, as Dick is processing this new information and working up the courage to ask the most important question resulting from it. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, grimacing as he notices he forgot the sugar. He puts the cup down again.

"When you say you wanted it," he says finally, voice faltering. "Does that mean... even with me?"

The silence that falls between them now is worse than the one before, even if it lasts half as long. Dick's stomach is adding a few more knots to itself as he's waiting for Bruce's answer.

"Dick..."

"I need to know, Bruce. Please. It's killing me to think I might have done something that disgusts you so deeply we can't recover from it. I mean, I know what I am to you, how you see me, that I'm just your son or your soldier, and that you can't—"

Bruce grasps Dick's arms to stop his tirade. His lips are compressed. "You do not know everything."

Dick swallows, his heart picking up speed. "Meaning?"

"You are so much more to me than that," Bruce admits in a thick voice.

Dick's breath hitches. Heat sweeps through his body as he's struggling with the implications. "How much more? Tell me."

Bruce backpedals. "It was inappropriate of me to reveal even that much."

"I think we're way past inappropriate."

"Dick."

"No, Bruce. Don't just leave me with that." Dick places his fingers gingerly on the Batsymbol on Bruce's chestplate. He feels like he might burn right through it. "Am I the only one who feels this?"

The muscles in Bruce's jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth.

"Okay, so I'm gonna come out with it since you clearly won't. I mean, after what I already did, I can't make it worse, right? Might as well." Dick takes a deep breath and drums his fingers onto Bruce's chest armor. "I want you, Bruce. I have wanted you since... I don't even know how long. I kept it down, ignored it, because you know... many reasons. Eventually I just thought it went away. But it didn't. It came back with a vengeance and now I can't stop thinking about you, but it's all tied up with what I did and that makes it feel wrong. A different wrong than before. And I'm just... so tired. Of feeling like it's wrong. What I did was, of course it was, and I'm ashamed of it, but I'm not ashamed of my feelings for you. They're genuine and I'm tired of hiding them. I guess I don't even care anymore if you don't feel that way or what this does to our relationship. I just needed to say it. Do with that what you will."

Dick rests his hands flat on Bruce's chest, then turns to walk away. Bruce's unrelenting grip on his arms stops him.

"Unless you're going to kiss me now, you'd better let me—"

Bruce kisses him. Bruce actually kisses him.

Dick can't describe the exhilaration that bursts through him. His heart is doing complicated somersaults inside his chest, knocking the breath out of him. Bruce winds his arm around Dick's waist to pull him closer, and Dick curls his fingers around the back of Bruce's neck to do the same. He can't believe he's finally kissing Bruce for real. He'd thought it could only ever happen inside his head.

The kiss is languid and amazing, in part because it's private and no one is watching them. Dick can get used to this. He can get used to this a lot.

"Okay, wow," Dick says when they slowly part, smiling crookedly. "I, um... I was rambling. I'm sorry."

"It was... certainly enlightening."

Dick cuffs Bruce's shoulder. "Flatterer."

Bruce takes Dick's head in his hands, gaze intensely blue, and presses his lips to Dick's once more. Dick forgets to breathe.

"Where do we go from here?" he asks when Bruce draws back again.

The guilt and the shame are still lodged in the pit of his stomach like the after effects of a gut punch. He's learned to live with this feeling in the past. What he doesn't know is if he'll be able to live with it this time, considering the very person he cares about so much acts as a constant reminder of it

"Is there anywhere you want to go?" Bruce asks, stroking his thumb over Dick's cheek.

"Can we figure it out together? This is all happening very fast. But I would like it to be with you."

"I would like that, too." Bruce smiles softly.

Dick's knees feel weak. He needs to have a seat. This is far from the outcome he would have imagined or even the outcome he deserves, but he's not going to turn it down. Dick is all about chances. About hope. 

Bruce is giving him both by agreeing to walk this path together and see where it leads them.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Vitriol" by Soen.


End file.
